


A Crowd of People Stood and Stared

by oilpainter



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, 1966, Angst, Blood and Injury, Cherry bomb incident, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I only write sad things, I'm Sorry, Major Character Injury, No pairings - Freeform, Please Don't Hate Me, Tragedy, What-If, this hurt to write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-12-01 23:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpainter/pseuds/oilpainter
Summary: “We’re Beatles, not presidents – and Beatles don’t get shot.”Memphis 1966 goes differently. The whole world is left reeling in shock.





	1. They're Gonna Crucify Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “One night on a show in the South somebody let off a firecracker while we were on stage. There had been threats to shoot us, the Klan were burning Beatle records outside and a lot of the crew-cut kids were joining in with them. Somebody let off a firecracker and every one of us looked at each other, because each thought it was the other that had been shot. It was that bad.” – John Lennon, Anthology 1974. 
> 
> This story is based on the 1966 Cherry Bomb Incident and it’s a what-if situation. 
> 
> Disclaimer: no disrespect meant to the Beatles or anyone associated with them - this is a work of fiction.

**19th August 1966, Memphis, Tennessee**

There were bullet holes in the body of the plane.

Paul halted at the top of the stairs, staring in disbelief. Yes – he had seen it right. There they were; four little dents in the metal a couple of feet away from the door. He brushed his fingers over the dents, feeling the cold rusted metal, and could have sworn his breathing stopped for a moment.

_Four bullet holes for four Beatles. _The dark thought entered his mind uninvited and he tried to push it back and not think about it. A shiver ran down his spine.

The angry letters and death threats they had received from religious zealots were starting to become very real. They may not have been taking it seriously before, joking that when the Ku Klux Klan burned Beatles records it boosted sales because they had to buy them first. But now Paul was feeling rather queasy. The ‘stupid Americans overreacting’ was no laughing matter anymore.

Maybe Brian was right, and this tour was a bit of a mistake.

The sound of thousands of screaming fans was overwhelming. They were far away from the runway for the band’s safety; Paul couldn’t see them from the plane door, but he could feel their presence and it left him on edge. The high-pitched screams of obsessive teenage girls were drowned out by the deafening roar of angry Christians. He could vaguely make out chants of ‘Beatles go home!’ and ‘Jesus forever, Beatles never!’

_John and his big mouth._

George was grumbling behind him, stuck in the exit of the plane and still looking half asleep. The youngest Beatle was wearing dark sunglasses – not for the sunny weather but to hide the bags under his eyes – and his hair was messily sticking up as if he had just awoken from a nap. After so many dates on their tour George didn’t seem to be doing well and on the flight he had been more withdrawn than ever. Perhaps he was coming down with something or maybe it was just exhaustion from performing every day. Paul knew that George didn’t tend to do well with constant performing and was often anxious playing for larger crowds.

“Eh, Macca, move along will ya? What’s the hold up?” George asked, hoisting his suitcase along behind him and coming to the top of the stairs to see why the bassist was staring at the side of the plane.

“Oh, nothing, just…” Paul trailed off, drawing his gaze away from the bullet holes. But he wasn’t quick enough and George curiously leaned over to see what the fuss was about.

“Ah.” George adjusted his sunnies and stared at the dents in the metal. “Well that’s a little problem.”

“Someone shot at the plane,” Paul confirmed, running a hand through his hair nervously. The coca cola he’d had on the flight was starting to swirl around in his stomach and his throat felt tight.

“Still want to go ahead with the concert?” George quipped.

The talk of quitting touring altogether was a constant disagreement in the group with Paul and the others on opposite sides. George and John had been making a case for discontinuing live performances, pointing out that there was no point playing if no one could hear them or even cared to listen, and running through the same songs over and over wasn’t benefitting them creatively at all. Surprisingly Brian Epstein was partly on their side, advocating a temporary break from the tour in light of the ‘More popular than Jesus’ controversy which was causing him to fear for their safety. Ringo had started off impartial but at one point quietly said that as much as he loved performing live, he was struggling to keep tempo when he couldn’t even hear the others, and he was starting to go deaf from the screaming audiences.

And not to mention, none of them particularly enjoyed being restricted to planes, armoured cars and tiny rooms. It was a drag to be stuck inside all the time, not able to move anywhere without hordes of security.

Contemplating the dents left from bullets that were meant for them, Paul was starting to be swayed.

“Let’s just… get it over with, yeah?” Paul muttered. “If they don’t notice the bullet holes on their way out, we don’t need to tell them they’re there. If Mal sees ‘em, he’ll call Brian. And Brian will freak out. He’s sick. Poor man doesn’t need anything more to worry about.”

“Sneaky,” George looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “But ok. I’m only agreeing to this because I’m too tired to think straight. And I just want ye to finally agree to stop touring. I hope this convinced you that it’s not safe for us right now.”

“Yeah…” Paul muttered, and hearing the others approaching, he started to make his way down the steps again. John, Ringo, Mal and Neil were passing by the plane door without noticing the small dents. They weren’t that obvious anyway – only noticeable if you leaned over the railing. “Let’s go. Only a couple hours more and we’ll be in a proper bed tonight at the hotel.”

“Urgh, sleep,” George groaned. “I need a good eight hours’ sleep tonight or I swear I’ll go barmy. A comfy bed. Lots of pillows. No aeroplane noise. I can’t fucking wait.”

When they reached the bottom of the steps and started to make their way over to the bus that was obviously meant for them, the volume of the crowd reached its crescendo. They had been spotted. The police was struggling to hold the hundreds of people back and – some of the girls made a break for it, pushing one of the officers to the floor. A little 10-year-old boy at the front was getting shoved around by the mob and Paul wondered where his parents were.

“Oh crap,” Paul mumbled, making a run for the bus, the others following close behind.

“Can’t we just sacrifice John?” George yelled, barely audible over the uproar. “He’s the one they want!”

“No Harrison, no one’s getting sacrificed. Go, go, go!” Mal was shouting in a booming voice.

He didn’t need to tell them twice.

The group reached the bus in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding being torn to pieces. Ringo, who was lagging behind, was pulled in by John and George just as the door shut behind them and a couple of teenagers scratched at the door.

Paul spotted a man with a white pointy hat further back in the crowd.

‘Spot the racist’ was a fun game they had been playing on this tour.

_Found him,_ he thought dryly.

“Thanks for that, Georgie,” John said tensely. “You might just as well paint a target on me.”

“That was insane,” Ringo panted, interrupting before George could open his mouth and throw something sarcastic back at John. Miraculously, the drummer was still all intact, as was his suitcase. “That crowd could ‘ave rivalled the one in the Philippines.”

“You should all get down, crouch or lie on the floor so they don’t see you,” Mal suggested. “Just to be safe. I’ll have a word with the driver.”

They followed his orders, crouching down and shuffling along to the back of the bus. Thankfully, the windows were tinted on the outside so they could still see out, but a few people in the crowd were banging their fists on the windows and trying to peep through the glass, disappointed at not being able to see the figures inside.

One little blonde boy – just a kid, no older than twelve – was screaming something unintelligible while he banged on the window, his face red and twisted in anger. Although he couldn’t see the Beatles, he seemed to be staring right in Paul’s direction and the glare pierced his soul. Paul tried to read his lips and could have sworn the kid was shouting _‘Go to hell.’ _Then the boy mimed a gesture of cutting his throat.

Paul’s heart leapt in his throat. Never before had he seen anyone – let alone a little kid – so angry and hateful, so hateful towards _him_. That expression would be burned in his memory forever.

He glanced around at his friends, who didn’t seem to have noticed.

Hiding his shaking hands in his pockets, Paul shrunk down to the floor and resolved himself to laying low in the aisle for the next half hour.

The others followed suit – Ringo sat underneath a window with his knees to his chest, George had taken to dramatically hiding and squeezed himself under a couple of rows of seats, and John sat next to Paul in the aisle with his feet up on a seat.

“Why are they after us?” George whispered from the dirty floor of the bus. He looked like he was regretting lying down there on his stomach, and he sneezed a couple of times from inhaling the dust. “Like a bloody pack of vultures.”

“Well Georgie, they’re tryna teach us a lesson,” John said sardonically, glaring at a bit of gum stuck to the side of a seat. “Don’t mention their beloved Jesus in vain or yeh get hounded for it. Simple as. All I do is spout some bullshit about the Beatles being more popular to kids than religion, and it gets taken out of context by the press and made to seem like I think meself more important than Jesus. Like I’m claiming to be the son of God. Well, ya know what, Jesus himself was crucified for claiming to be the son of God right? So they want to bloody well crucify me for blasphemy. Back home no one gave a shit about what I said. But we’re in the Bible Belt now, lad. ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain’ and all that. Well they can bugger off, the lot of them, ‘cause they’re all crazies and they may have forced an apology out of me but I stand by what I said.”

John’s words were cool, calculated and impassive as usual but his bitten nails and the sweat on his brow were betraying him. Paul couldn’t even bring himself to be mad at him anymore because the poor guy just looked so stressed.

“Hey,” Paul nudged John’s shoulder in an effort to comfort him, always the one to clutch at the remaining wisps of positivity. “We’ll be ok. We always are. We’re the bloody Beatles. We’re the biggest band in the world, at the toppermost of the poppermost – nothing can bring us down.”

“Fucking toppermost,” Lennon grumbled. It was a harsh contrast to even five years ago when he could shout an energetic _‘Where are we heading, boys?’_ and instantly put his bandmates in high spirits. “If being shot at is the price of being at the toppermost then I don’t want it,” he continued.

George was nodding in agreement and Paul felt his heart sink. “I never chose fame,” George pointed out quietly. “If I had a choice I would never ‘ave chosen it. Especially not if I knew it would be like this. Fame is so fake, and fickle… and dangerous.”

“Nah, we’re not at the toppermost, fellas,” Ringo said solemly. “Y’know, I think this is a pretty low point, crouching down in a bus scared of being killed like Kennedy.” 

Ringo acting so unlike his usual happy-go-lucky self – so pessimistic – was unnerving. It felt like the band was starting to fall apart in front of his very eyes. Paul didn’t feel like contributing to the conversation any further and just settled for staring blankly out of the window at two blackbirds perched on the edge of a building, dropping off the ledge and soaring into flight.

There was a silence for a minute or two as they gathered their thoughts, the only sound coming from the rumble of the bus and the traffic outside.

From the floor of the bus they could only see the sky and the tops of buildings passing by. It felt isolated from the rest of the world, as if they were in their own private bubble. But – at the same time, the atmosphere was tense and claustrophobic. They were in their own little bubble, just the four of them, but the walls of the bubble were closing in, about to crush and suffocate them. If the humid, sticky weather of an August day in Tennessee didn’t crush them, the tense, pressured mood surely would.

Maybe the people in the cars next to them were just living their normal lives, doing the school run in the morning, working a 9 to 5 job, having burgers for dinner, burning a couple of Beatles records on a bonfire every now and then.

Paul sometimes wished he could have the mundanity of a normal life.

It felt like his life wasn’t real. It couldn’t possibly be – why was he, a 24-year-old from Liverpool, crouching down on the floor of a bus in fear of being shot?

“I’m – look, I’m sorry I got you lads into this mess,” John murmured, fiddling with his sleeve. He was staring at the threads of his sleeve and pulling at them, resolutely not looking any of them in the eyes. The others looked at him in concern, having rarely seen him look so uncomfortable. It was a sharp contrast to his unapologetic, cynical mood from only moments ago. “I’m sorry we’re stuck here between the KKK and the Christians, and I know yer scared of being hurt because of something dumb I said… well I’m just sorry, ok.”

“Johnny,” Paul said softly, shuffling along a bit to put an arm round his shoulder and bring his friend close to his side. John leaned into the hug reluctantly. “Don’t ya go apologising now. None of this is your fault… and we’re sorry too, if it came across that we were blaming you. I wouldn’t care if you shat on the floor of Buckingham Palace, I’ll always stick by yer side no matter what. You know that.”

“I wouldn’t,” Ringo said, grinning. “If John did that, I reckon I’d cut all ties with him.”

“Me too,” George said, looking amused.

“Well, I didn’t mean it literally–” Paul protested. “Ya know what I mean – oh, nevermind.”

“Thanks, Paulie.” John gave a little smirk and pushed his friend’s shoulder lightly. “I’d stick by your side if you took a shit in front of the Queen too. Y’know what, how about we do it together when we get back home? That’ll be one for the papers. ‘Lennon and McCartney get high, go bonkers, and lose their MBEs for crapping in the throne room.’”

Ringo laughed loudly and covered his mouth with his hand.

Paul smiled. He loved hearing Ringo laugh. Ringo’s laugh could light up a room. Not that he’d ever tell him that – he’d probably get teased for it and called queer. 

The atmosphere on the bus was beginning to feel less tense. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt,” Paul said, while the bus turned a corner and the arena came into view. “We’re Beatles, not presidents – and Beatles don’t get shot. We have heaps and heaps of security. We’ll get through this ok and we’ll be back home in no time.”

Perhaps it was unwise of him to make this promise. After all, if a madman with a bomb, a knife or a gun was determined enough… it was a possibility. With the death threats they’d received so far… _God,_ he couldn’t erase from his mind the face of that kid pressed against the bus, his baby face contorted in fury…

There was still an uneasy feeling bubbling in Paul’s stomach and he had this nagging feeling that something _would_ go wrong. But he had to keep a brave face for his bandmates.

_If anything bad happens, _he swore to himself. _No more touring after this. _

The bus came to a stop after a while. There was no sound of shouting fans – or shouting white supremacists, for that matter – so it seemed they were at a back entrance, away from the crowds.

“Right, boys,” Mal said, making his way over from the front of the bus to where they were crouched down at the back. He was rubbing his hands together with a kind of anxious, unconvincing enthusiasm, like he wanted to show everything was under control but didn’t even believe it himself. He furrowed his eyebrows, searching around a bit, having noticed he could only see three Beatles from his viewpoint. “Where’s George?”

George poked his head out into the aisle from underneath a seat. “’ello,” he replied, smiling sheepishly and brushing some dust out of his hair. “What’s the plan?”

“Ok, we’ve got a press conference scheduled for 2pm on the lower level of the venue for fans and local reporters,” Mal explained. “It should last no more than half an hour and there’ll be a buffet of sorts with sandwiches, so you can pick up a bit of lunch there before you head off to get ready. Then the first show is at 4pm and the second at 8:30. After, we’ll have a couple of decoy cars to send out first to lessen your chances of getting mobbed, and you’ll be leaving out the side entrance of the arena in the back of a van. Don’t you lads go worrying about security now – we’ve got all that sorted. Your job today is just to keep up public appearances, look sharp and give a good performance. And keep your wits about you. We’ve got a team of eighty security guards and police officers – but don’t any of you go wandering off because if you lost or stuck in a crowd and there’s no one near… well let’s just say it won’t be pretty.”

“So basically, no going outside for a ciggy break, pretend like everything is fine and dandy, be good little kiddies and obey yer every word?” John quipped.

“Erm, yes, essentially,” Mal deadpanned. “You hit the nail on the head, Lennon.”

George leaned forward and banged his forehead softly against the floor, looking fed up. “I miss the days when we had freedom,” he grumbled.

“It’s for your own safety,” Mal pointed out.

“Yeah… still, doesn’t mean it’s any fun,” John groaned.

Mal shrugged and clapped his hands with that same unconvincing enthusiasm. “Come on, up and at ‘em, boys! Only ten minutes until the press conference!” he exclaimed. “Leave your luggage – Neil will bring that along to the hotel later. Your instruments are in the dressing room already.”

George did a little shuffle and squirmed his way out from under the seats while the others grumbled and headed along the aisle.

“I hope they have cheese sandwiches,” George was muttering to himself behind Paul. “Not American cheese mind you. Real cheese, not that plasticky shite from a squeezy tube. I miss me nice French cheeses. Even a block of boring British cheddar would be better than what we got ‘ere. God, I can’t wait to get home just so I can feast on a plate of cheeses. That’ll be gear.”

Paul shook the driver’s hand as he exited, giving him a quick thanks and a nod of the head.

“Oh bugger, now I’ve made myself hungry,” George whispered, stepping off behind him. “They better have cheese sarnies. If they do, I’m gonna eat them all. And maybe I’ll share _one_ with Ringo.”

Paul’s lips quirked up.

Sometimes George tended to talk to himself when he thought no one was listening. It was something that endlessly amused Paul, ever since they studied in the school library together when they were kids and George would talk through every maths problem out loud as he was solving it, while the librarian shushed him.

And he would talk in his sleep too – Paul’s favourite incident was that time in Hamburg when they were all sharing a room and George had caused chaos when he’d sat bolt upright with his eyes still closed and calmly said ‘Just thought I should warn you… I put a load of huge cockroaches in your beds.’ It wasn’t funny at the time, what with John’s screams waking up the whole street, and Ringo pulling all the sheets off his bed in a wild panic, but they had laughed about it afterwards. Another time, during one of the recording sessions for Revolver, George was recovering from the flu and fell asleep on one of the chairs in the studio. He’d said something along the lines of ‘We have to take the fish out of the tank or they’ll die… they’re all going to drown,’ and he’d been woken up by his laughing bandmates, who hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep until he piped up with that absurdity.

Harrison had the title of ‘the quiet Beatle’ but honestly, he never shut up.

On their way into the venue – while George continued mumbling about how hungry he was – they were met by Neil and two middle-aged men in uniform, who walked with them down the corridors.

“Lads, this is Sheriff Robert Barnham,” Neil said, gesturing to the 6ft tall rough-looking man carrying a gun on his hip, who gave them a calculated look up and down.

“Nice to meet y’all,” Barnham said in a southern drawl, shaking the Beatles’ hands in a firm grip. He seemed intimidating but friendly enough. “I’m the chief of the Memphis police force. We’ve got a team of thirty cops out here today. Most will be stationed inside the venue for yours and the audience’s safety, then we’ll have some outside keeping an eye on the protesters and the Ku Klux Klan… nasty business, that is. Your manager, Epstein, called to let us know you’ve been receiving death threats and said he’s concerned for your safety… well, we’ve doubled our number of officers present and we’ll do our best to keep you safe under our protection.”

“And this is Mr Brick Hardy,” Neil continued, nodding to the shorter, rounder man with a moustache, sunglasses and greying blond hair.

‘Brick?’ John mouthed to Paul, smirking. ‘That’s a real name?’

Hardy gave John an impassive stare, looking unimpressed at having to babysit a couple of twenty-something-year-olds, which evidently wasn’t in his job description. “I’m the head of security for the Memphis Mid-South Coliseum. If you have any issues you come to me,” he said brusquely, looking unenthusiastic at the thought. “We’ll have fifty security guards around the stadium and five of them will be shadowing you until the moment you get on stage. We’ve had to hire two times more men for today, so I expect the costs for overtime will be covered. This is all a bit of a nuisance and it would have been nice to be warned earlier,” he glanced condescendingly at Mal with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, yes,” Mal said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Sorry – that’s not my business, you’ll have to talk to Brian Epstein about that. Now, come on guys, we’re in a rush.”

He motioned them towards an open dressing room door and they brushed past Barnham and a displeased looking Hardy.

John gave Brick a cheerful wave and a sweet smile. “Bye! Always a pleasure, Brick!”

The head of security gave a tense, forced smile back.

“I don’t think he liked us,” Ringo said dejectedly when they flopped down on a sofa in the dressing room.

“Yes – Brick seems to have as much personality as a brick,” John muttered.

George wriggled around to lay upside down with his feet on the wall and his head hanging down. It didn’t look comfy in the slightest but he looked happy enough. “I don’t think many people like us here,” he pointed out quietly.

There was a knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” John asked loudly.

“Tony Barrow,” came a voice from behind the door.

“Tony Barrow who?” John inquired.

“Your press agent,” he said seriously. “Come along, your press conference is starting; time to get interrogated for information. If you don’t come soon they might start a riot and set the place on fire.”

“Wow, I wish that _was_ a knock-knock joke,” John deadpanned. “Sadly, it’s reality. Let’s go, lads.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In August 1966 the mayor of Memphis advised the Beatles that they weren't welcome in the City of Memphis. When the Beatles arrived, there were several bullet holes in the fuselage of their plane. From the airport, "decoy limousines were sent ahead, while the band rode in a specially outfitted bus, crouched on the floor to protect themselves from potential snipers." There were protesters outside the venue and a member of the KKK emphasised the Klan as a "terror organisation" and said they had "ways and means to stop this performance."  
“Everything seemed to be controlled and calm, but underneath somehow, there was this nasty atmosphere." - Barrow  
https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/when-john-lennons-more-popular-than-jesus-controversy-turned-ugly-106430/
> 
> Yes - their 1966 tour really was this dramatic!
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos, etc etc. :)


	2. Nothing's Gonna Change My World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am six months later with the second chapter... yep, I'm sorry it took so long. It took a pandemic and a country-wide lockdown for me to continue this lol. I swear this story will be finished eventually though :)  
For the interview section in this chapter, some questions and answers are taken from a Beatles interview in Memphis on 19th August 1966. Others I made up. If you want to see the source and read the interview it's here http://www.beatlesinterviews.org/db1966.0819.beatles.html
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter!

Press conferences and interviews were something that the Beatles never took seriously.

The questions were always boring and repetitive – for some reason the only things the press seemed to care about was whether they wore wigs, how they felt about the hundreds of screaming fans who followed them everywhere, and all the juicy details of their private lives.

As a result of boredom, John would always put on his most witty, sarcastic and jokey act for press conferences, just so he could play with the reporters and make fun of them.   
Paul was usually the one who did most of the talking, and the others left him to answer the majority of the questions because they knew he did the best job what with his diplomatic, calm way of diffusing tension and his ability to meaningfully ramble on about any subject.   
Ringo, as usual, was generally just along for the ride and joked around a bit but was equally capable of being serious. 

Although none of them particularly enjoyed press conferences, George was probably the one who enjoyed them the least. His opinion was that most of the press were a bunch of no-good, petty swines who’ll disregard your personal space and go digging through any old rubbish just to find a scandal out of nothing. But, he usually put up with them and answered the bare minimum of questions in interviews. He liked to keep himself entertained by coming up with the occasional dry and perfectly timed quip that would make the whole room laugh.

George’s philosophy was that he only contributed to conversations if he had something interesting to say. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Perhaps this was what gave him the reputation of ‘The Quiet Beatle’.

He was perfectly fine with this reputation. It meant people underestimated him. He didn’t talk much and wasn’t as extroverted as Lennon and McCartney, people sometimes even forgot his name or that he was a member of the band, he didn’t get many of his songs on the albums… but he was patient. He had a few songs up his sleeve. More than a few – enough for several albums. He was just waiting to explode like a supernova.   
Some of his newer songs – Isn’t It a Pity, While My Guitar Gently Weeps and Art of Dying – surely they were too good not to include on a Beatles album?

If they even made it that far…

It felt like this tour had lasted years, not mere weeks. It felt like they might fall apart before they could make it through this. They were all stressed, exhausted and constantly on edge. He was trying to argue a case for quitting touring and becoming a studio band… but at this point, this future where they were recording again and back home in England, felt ages away.

The press conference felt like a kind of strange alternate reality where the Beatles took themselves highly seriously. There was a tense, nasty atmosphere – George hated it and he felt his stomach twisting in knots just sitting there. He was already anxious enough with all the eyes of the reporters and fans on him; the awkward silences and the judgemental glares made him feel sick.

John was fidgeting in his chair, pulling at his sleeves, somehow looking sullen, angry and disengaged all at once; Paul was giving him the occasional concerned glance and answering questions in a calm, professional tone; Ringo was keeping quiet and kept looking at Barrow, waiting for him to end the interview already.

After a few light-hearted questions about how the tour was going, a reporter jumped straight in at the deep end. George knew this certainly wouldn’t be the cheeriest interview they’d ever given.

“What difference has all this row made to the tour, do you think? Any at all?” The man asked.

It was the first question they’d got today about the controversy.

John shifted, breathed in sharply and went to answer the question then completely froze with his mouth open. George stared at his friend but couldn’t read what was wrong. John had sunglasses on and he couldn’t tell if he was staring blankly at something, had an attack of the nerves, or just didn’t want to say anything in response to the question that would dig him into a deeper hole. Or maybe John Lennon was genuinely speechless for the first time in his life.

Ringo laughed nervously, trying to pass it off as if John was joking around.

Paul, thankfully, saved all their arses as usual. “Um, I don't think it's made much difference. It's made it more hectic and all the press conferences mean a bit more… the questions are a bit more serious this time. It hasn't affected any of the bookings. The people coming to the concerts have been the same, ‘xcept for the first show in Memphis which was a bit down, y’know. But, so what."

"Do you feel that Americans are out to get you... that this is all developing into something of a witch hunt?"

That was a sly question to ask. George knew that it would be tricky to answer because if they said yes, then surely people would see that they were scared and that the pressure was getting to them. If they said no, then they would seem unbothered and uncaring, or not taking the situation seriously enough. _“Yeah, they want to bloody well lynch us,” _George whispered under his breath, and only Paul, sat next to him, turned his head and gave a grimace.

"No – we thought it might be that kind of thing. I think a lot of people in England did, because there's this thing about, y’know, when America gets violent and very hung-up on a thing, it tends to have this sort of 'Ku Klux Klan' thing around it,” Paul replied neutrally.

It fascinated George how Paul could say something potentially controversial or offensive by calling America violent, in such a calm and pleasant tone. He was truly charismatic, and everyone loved him. George wondered: if Paul had said the Beatles were more popular than Jesus, would people have criticised him or taken it out of context like they did with John?

Paul was everyone’s favourite. He was even George’s mother’s favourite Beatle. Whenever Paul had come round on his bike to visit George when they were kids, his mum would always cook Paul’s favourite chicken soup. George never got preferential treatment like that.

_God, I miss that chicken soup,_ George thought, completely off track. _Next time I’m in Liverpool I’ll ask ma for some of that chicken soup. _

Paul nudged him in his side. “Shh, George, we don’t wanna hear about your chicken soup,” he whispered quietly while the interviewer went onto the next question.

George only then realised he’d been mumbling “chicken soup” quietly to himself. Goddamn.

What happened to that buffet lunch they were promised? He was hungry. Although, given how his stomach felt like it was flipping over itself and they were meant to be on stage in an hour… maybe he should give lunch a miss. He didn’t want to throw up all over the stage.

“Sorry,” George muttered back.

“It seems to me like you’re successful _because_ you’ve been outspoken, direct and forthright. Does it seem a bit hard to you that people are now knocking you for this very thing?” the interviewer asked.

George snorted. He didn’t know if being outspoken and stubborn necessarily contributed to their success; it was just a part of who they were. They weren’t in any way a band who had a lot of drama or controversy, except for when they spoke the truth and were honest (because people didn’t like to hear the harsh truth). What else were they meant to do, be good little boys and keep quiet about segregation in their concerts and other things they didn’t agree with?

Similarly, it seemed like people either adored Lennon for his bluntness, his sarcasm and his wit… or hated on him for the exact same reasons. For George, that summed up his friendship with John. John was like his brother – he got on his nerves all the time and they’d be fighting one second then love each other the next.

It was hard to put into words how it felt to see John wearing his tough persona in public… then to see that fade away off stage, to hug him and see his softer personality and see how he interacted with Julian.   
John had built up years of protection around himself and had this hard exterior because he didn’t want to be hurt again. And George knew that John’s worst fear was everyone hating him… or his loved ones leaving him. He felt honoured to be allowed to see his vulnerable side, as he was sure the other Beatles did too.

John could be a dickhead sometimes but he was their dickhead and they loved him. 

He knew that deep down John was hurt because of this whole situation. He knew he didn’t mean what he’d said to that bloody newspaper and was regretting his words ever since.

John and Paul exchanged a glance, looking amused. “Yes,” John nodded. “It seems very hard.”

“It seems hard,” Paul continued. “You know, free speech.”

“But… it doesn't matter about people not liking our records, or not liking the way we look, or what we say,” John said firmly with his head held high, and this was the most confident he’d been all day. “They're entitled to not like us. And we're entitled not to have anything to do with ‘em if we don't want to, or not to regard them. We've all got our rights, y’know.”

“We’ve heard you’ve received anonymous death threats and the KKK have just said they’re a ‘terror organisation’ and have ‘ways and means’ to stop you performing. What changes have you made to security in response to this?” another reporter asked, looking grim.

_Holy shit_, George thought. _That’s a bit more serious than them just not liking us._

John went white as a sheet and stared down at his hands. He looked like he might pass out.

“A threat from the KKK… that’s news to me,” Paul muttered to George, who nodded and bit his lip. He knew the Klan were gathering outside the venue, he just hadn’t heard they’d spoken to the press… and actually issued a threat.

“A _terror organisation_,” George repeated in a whisper, disbelieving. Was this really his life now? He took a sip of his water nervously, trying his best to not let his hands visibly shake. A chill went down his spine.

Ringo was desperately glancing towards Barrow and nodding towards the reporter, trying to get across a message of ‘oh dear fucking God please help us and end the interview already’. To anyone else, it probably looked like he had an odd twitch.

Their press agent looked highly stressed.

_We need Brian,_ George thought.

“Er,” George started, just to end the tense silence. But his mind was blank and he didn’t know how to continue. The heavy silence dragged on.

They had to say something though, they couldn’t just end it here abruptly and cancel the press conference without answering the question.

“Um, we’ve upped security twofold after getting death threats,” Paul answered, and George had never been so thankful for someone to interrupt him. After all this was over, he’d cook Paul his favourite chicken soup and buy him a nice new bass guitar or something. Honestly, he was constantly saving their arses from the press. “We’re working with security guards, bodyguards and, er, the Memphis cops –” Paul looked uncomfortable using the American terminology “– and they’re here not to only keep us safe but our audience members too. We appreciate the fans working with security and making their jobs easier, by not climbing over barriers, trying to get onstage or overcrowding and swarming forwards. Y’know, we all need to work together to keep each other safe.”

George couldn’t have put it better.

Then John opened his mouth.

“It’s stupid though,” John said, and there was a dark glint in his eyes. He still looked pale and shaky… and unpredictable. Like he could say anything next and it would only dig him further into a hole. “That they – that they’re taking it so seriously. I’ve already apologised for what I said, and what I said was a load of rubbish anyway. I’m not claiming to be better or greater than Jesus and I’m not anti-God. I think they need to take a long hard look at themselves and ask whether their religious extremism – or sending death threats – is what their God would want ‘em to do.”

George wanted to bang his head on the wall.

It made sense. What John was saying made sense, as usual, and he was being logical. But these people who sent threats to them didn’t adhere to common sense and they’d pick apart John’s words and take it as an insult. By addressing the situation directly, surely John would have made it worse?

“Do y’all believe in Jesus though?” a teenage fan asked loudly from the back of the room, without even being called on or using a microphone as he was supposed to. _What a ridiculous question to ask at a press conference._ George stared, trying to find out where the voice was coming from.

There. The tall kid with black hair and blue eyes which seemed to pierce George’s soul.

He didn’t even know the answer to that question.

Did he? Did he believe in Jesus? Did he believe in God or a god, or gods? Did he believe the universe was created by an omnipotent being and that life continued on after death? Who was he? Who was George Harrison and what did he believe and what was his place in the world?

He was still in the process of trying to figure that out. He was only 23; there were years ahead of him to figure that out.

“I don’t think that’s a relevant question,” George said calmly into the microphone, and it was the most he’d spoken in the whole interview. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m just a musician. Same for these lads. We’re not priests or gurus. And we can’t tell you what to believe or not believe, that’s up to you. You make yer own choices and you make yer own path in life.”

Barrow was giving the signal to wrap it up and the cameraman gave a thumbs up then a cut sign.

The sigh of relief the Beatles gave was probably audible from Liverpool.

“Thank you all for coming,” John said dryly, leaning into the microphone. “And please don’t contact us for compensation if you get torn to pieces by the mob outside… we’re not liable.”

There were a few genuine laughs at Lennon’s dark humour and a few stony, unimpressed looks.

Ringo gave a quiet snicker behind them. Paul put his palm to his face and shook his head, looking done. George just rolled his eyes.

\-----

They never ended up getting anything from the buffet because they’d been rushed out of the lower levels of the arena straight up to a dressing room, before anyone could ask any more questions (or, more accurately, before John could answer any more questions). 

George wasn’t even hungry anymore.

He felt nauseous, he felt like his heart was right up in his throat and he could feel blood pounding in his ears. There were five minutes to go until showtime and he already had a headache. They could hear the screaming from here.

Paul tuning his bass wasn’t helping – the out-of-tune twangs did nothing but grate on George’s ears. But there was too little time left to say anything or cause an argument.

Ringo was lying face down on the sofa with his face in a cushion. He was tapping his fingernails incessantly on the coffee table and humming the tune to I Wanna Be Your Man to himself. George couldn’t bring himself to be mad at him either; any anger he’d ever held against Ringo barely lasted two seconds.

John was biting his nails and pacing up and down as much as he could in their claustrophobic little room. Seeing John nervous only made him more nervous. He was like an older brother, right? Older brothers were meant to never be scared or worried, and when they were, that meant it was something serious and he should be worried too.

God, why did George have to end up with the three most annoying bandmates? He loved them to bits (not that they knew that) but their little nervous habits were only heightening his own anxiety.

The phone rang, sharp and high-pitched, and George could have sworn he jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t even noticed there was a phone in the dressing room in the first place. He leapt up out of the chair and reached towards it to be the first to pick it up, if only because he wanted something to do to take his mind off everything. Maybe it was Brian, calling to wish them well for the concerts he would be missing and to update them on his health.

“Shove up, ya daft scruff,” he whispered to Ringo, pushing the drummer’s legs off the side of the sofa so he could sit next to the phone. “Hello?” he spoke clearly down the line. “George Harrison speaking.”

“Oi,” Ringo complained quietly. He wriggled around and made himself at home, folding his arms in protest and resting his legs up over George’s lap. “Not moving.”

There was silence down the other end of the phone and George assumed it was just a signal issue.

“Brian, is that you, eh? Can you hear us?” he asked louder. He assumed it was Eppy calling. Who else would it be? No one else would have been able to get the number for the Beatles’ dressing room.

The voice on the other end of the line was certainly not Brian Epstein.

But… it was vaguely familiar.

He had a southern American accent. The same accent they’d been hearing all day in Memphis.

“Hi George Harrison,” the man said emotionlessly. “I’m going to kill you.”

George froze in place with his mouth open.

The cool detachment in the man’s voice, the calm way he’d said something so awful and terrifying… it sent an icy shudder through George’s entire body. His hand started to shake where he held the phone up to his ear and he nearly dropped it. He breathed in sharply and tried to remember how to speak. “Who… who is this? Who gave you this number?”

“I’m going to kill you. One of you. All of you. I don’t care.” The stranger just repeated what he’d said. He sounded more confident this time, as though he’d resolved himself to finish a mission and there was nothing he was more certain about.

George felt the blood draining from his face and stared at the wall blankly. Next to him, Ringo had taken his feet off his lap and was trying to lean in to listen to the conversation. George just moved further away, not wanting his friend to hear this man’s threats. John and Paul were staring at him in confusion, John still biting his nails but no longer pacing. The room was silent except for George’s shaky voice. “Why? Why would you–”

“You’re a dead man.”

The line went dead.

For a moment that felt like it lasted forever, the world stopped turning and everything paused and everything was calm. Then, he remembered to breathe and it felt like everything erupted into chaos.

He dropped the phone and it bounced off the floor on the cord, dented and broken. Ringo was shaking his shoulder and Paul and John were questioning him and he could see their lips moving but couldn’t hear what they were saying past the pounding in his ears.

Ringo took a hold of one of his hands, maybe in an effort to ground him, but all he could see was his own stark white hand, the same colour as the blank walls, void of blood, void of life, and his mind was as blank and empty as the wall and he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak and he was going to die–

“George. Georgie. Hey. What’s wrong?” Paul was asking, holding his face in his hands and trying to bring his younger friend back to reality.

George stared straight through him with glazed eyes.

“Prank call. Some kid – messing around. ‘m fine, nothing’s wrong,” he managed to get out through gritted teeth eventually. But he felt like everything was spinning and he wanted to tell them the truth but he couldn’t– he couldn’t tell John. He couldn’t tell John that he’d been threatened personally. John would blame himself and hate himself and go mad with worry.

Well, this was a bit of a mess, wasn’t it?

George knew that there were people protesting, burning their records, and sending them death threats. But Brian had never let them see the full extent of the death threats.

He’d never heard someone, telling him directly, that they wished to cause him harm and see him dead. That they wished to murder him.

The nauseous feeling rose up in his throat and George leapt up and stumbled to the bathroom next door, deciding he couldn’t hide it from his bandmates anymore. He locked the door, just in time – the others wouldn’t want to see this, it was bad enough hearing him gagging – and he vomited up the toast and orange juice he’d had for breakfast.

For once in his life he was glad they hadn’t eaten lunch.

It burned his throat as it came back up and he felt some frustrated tears forming but refused to let them fall.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Pull yourself together, you’ll get through this.”

He flushed the toilet. Someone was pounding on the door persistently as if they were trying to knock it down.

“Harrison, the hell’s going on?” John was yelling.

“No, let him be – give him some space,” Ringo countered back stubbornly.

“We’ve got to be on stage in three minutes,” Paul fretted, his voice rising in stress. “Make that two minutes.”

“Yeah,” he tried to yell back so they could hear him over the fray. But it came out hoarse. “Yeah, I’ll be out, just a mo’–”

Not having time to brush his teeth to get the vile taste out of his mouth, he just turned his head sideways and used the sink as a water fountain, rinsing his mouth out then spitting it out again.

His head was spinning.

“Guys, you were meant to be backstage – where’s George?” Mal’s voice came through as the others all talked over each other. “Oh, we really do _not_ have time for this.”

“He’s been sick–” Ringo started.

“ – think he’s coming down with something –” Paul guessed.

“Nerves,” John said grimly. “Poor lad didn’t look good.”

George stood up straight, took in a deep breath and stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was all over the place, he had bags under his eyes and he looked pale and clammy.

He flattened his hair down.

It would have to do.

Paul nearly fell into the bathroom when he unlocked the door.

“I’m fine,” George said calmly, trying to convince himself more than the others. “Let’s do this shit.”

And he strode out in the direction of the stage, the others following and giving each other worried glances every two seconds.

The amount of security they had was insane. As they left the dressing room, five tall, burly men followed in their footsteps, surrounding them on every side. At the side of the stage were more security guards and police – George could have sworn he saw some of them with guns.

Jesus Christ. They were just a band singing songs. Why would anyone want to kill them? Why should they _need_ armed security_?_

The world had gone mad.

“George,” John murmured quietly as they were picking up their guitars. He put a hand on his shoulder. “If yer not well enough to go onstage, that’s ok. Just say you want out.”

George’s hands were shaking. John’s hand on his shoulder was trembling too.

Mal was shouting at them to get their arses up on stage.

The crowd was roaring. Not screaming; roaring and chanting and shouting. He had never heard anything louder.

“I got a –” George started, pushing John’s hand off his shoulder and staring at him with wide eyes. “Someone told me – he said he’d–”

The roaring reached a crescendo as Paul and Ringo leapt onto the stage. Mal and Neil were pushing the other two, willing them to get the hell on stage already before people noticed half of the Beatles were missing.

George and John glanced at each other with fear in their eyes, and went willingly onto the battlefield, guitars in hand.


End file.
